But he could not. He would drown here, naked and alone, a few miles from the place of his birth. Would anyone ever find his corpse? Or would the sea spirit his dead body away and drive it deep under water for the fish to slowly devour? The tide rose fast, forcing him further up the sandbank, still closer to the seals. They were calling now, cracking open the night with their eerie, high-pitched voices sounding like the souls of the damned. Mendick shuddered. This was not how he wanted to die, alone and uncared for, surrounded by wild beasts and in this place of evil memories. He moved closer to the gaping jaws of the seals.
The rising easterly wind brought rain, increasing from a smirr that had smeared the friendly flickering lamps of Broughty to a skin-lashing torrent that erased the lights completely and left Mendick alone with the dark and the leaping waves, the crash of the surf and the hoarse wails of the seals. Unable to stand, he lay, feeling the water rise around him, and then the seals were gone. One second they were there, a terrifying presence all around him, and next they had vanished into the sea as if one mind controlled all their bodies. In their place came the most sickening smell Mendick had ever experienced. He looked up, just as the sea covered the last few square inches of the sandbank and surged the length of his naked body. A shift of wind tore a gap in the clouds, he could see the lights of Dundee glimmer faintly to the north. Christ, but he hated that place and now he must die on its sea gate, unloved in death as he had been in life.
Unloved, that was, except by Emma. He spat the salt from his throat. “I’m coming, Emma,” he shouted. “Hold out your hand for me!”
But what was that terrible stench?
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The stench increased, causing Mendick to gag even as the sea slid up the length of his body. He rolled over and pushed himself upright, straining for air. The swell increased, surging up his body, breaking against his chest, splashing water against his face and into his nostrils. He closed his eyes: this was not how he had visualised his death, a slow drowning on a sandbank at the mouth of the Firth of Tay. But Emma would be waiting, always with that soft smile. He could almost see her, pointing, shouting something he could not understand.
“Man ahoy!” The voice was male, the accent born in the streets of Dundee. The voice faded slightly but the words carried above the hush and spatter of the sea.
“There’s some lunatic standing on the sandbank, lads. Pull closer and we’ll have a look.”
Mendick’s knees buckled as he tried to turn and he slipped beneath the surface and emerged, choking and spluttering, “Ahoy! Who’s there?”
The boat was so close to him the port oars almost cracked his head, but the oarsmen shipped in time and glided alongside. Bearded faces stared at him as if he were a ghost. A man with an iron-grey beard and huge hands hauled him on board and left him lying face down on the thwarts. “You lie there a minute, son, and get your senses back.”
Mendick glanced along the line of legs to the stern to where a cloaked and hooded figure held the steering oar.
“He’s naked,” the man with the beard spoke again.
Mendick retched and vomited seawater into the boat, heaving and gasping as he emptied his lungs and stomach of the burning salt.
“Tied up, too,” somebody said. “There’s been foul work here, I wager.”
There was the snick of metal in leather and a knife sliced through Mendick’s bonds. He wriggled his hands and feet, gasping at the prickled torture of returning circulation. He tried to thank his rescuers but he could not speak. Salt sea water had combined with the biting cold to rob him of the power of speech. He tried to stand, to see who steered this providential boat, but the bearded man thrust him hard down onto the middle thwart. “You just sit there, lad. Keep still or you’ll have us over.”
The muffled figure in the stern gave an order in the light voice of a youth and the oarsmen thrust in again. The boat pulled for the northern shore of the Tay with all four oars dipping and rising simultaneously in the practised stroke of an experienced crew. Despite his exhaustion, Mendick admired their skill and watched the phosphorescence gleam from the oar blades and reflect from the bubbling wake. He began to shiver until someone threw a soft cloak over him. It smelled of salt mingled with a strange, floral aroma he recognised, from where he could not say.
Iron-beard tapped his shoulder. “Rest easy, lad. You’re safe now.” He nudged Mendick’s arm and passed him a flask. “Go on, drink. It’ll help.” The voice was rough but not unfriendly and the eyes that scrutinised him were worldly-wise, bright blue behind a web of wrinkles and deep with knowledge and compassion.
“Thank you.” Mendick sipped from the flask. He coughed on fiery rum and sipped again. Liquid fire seeped into his throat and exploded inside his stomach. He breathed out slowly and closed his eyes. It seemed an age since he had followed that green-cloaked pickpocket across the High Street although he guessed it was just over 24 hours ago. He swayed slightly but righted himself as the oarsmen eased past the towering bulk of Broughty Castle and towards the lone gleam of a single lantern. The second the keel of the boat kissed and furrowed the soft sand of Broughty Beach, the oarsmen shipped oars in unison. Hard hands helped him gently from the boat and onto the beach.
There were six men in the boat. Iron-beard and another guided Mendick, two carried bundles carefully wrapped in oiled canvas, one carried a cask and the slim, hooded figure walked the length of the boat from the stern to the bow before stepping dry-shod and erect onto the beach.
Lights flickered from the windows of the clustered fisher cottages as the men headed directly for the solitary yellow glow of a lantern in the upper window of a larger house.
“That’s Unicorn Cottage,” Mendick’s voice was harsh in his own ears. “That’s Mrs Gordon’s house.”
The men ignored him, their feet silent in the soft sand as they hurried to a door in the garden wall. The young man in the hood unlocked it and without hesitation they marched to the back door and eased inside, where the young man lit the gas light.
They were in a stone-flagged kitchen dominated by a range black-leaded to a gloss, with racks and spits and spoons dangling from hooks. The room smelled of soap and polish. The men carefully placed their burdens on a scrubbed deal table, while iron-beard pulled out a chair for Mendick.
“Sit you there, lad.” He guided Mendick down. “You’ll be fine after a wee rest.”
The young man stepped inside the pool of lamp light and pulled back his hood. When he shook his head his auburn hair cascaded around his shoulders. “Thank you,” Johanna said softly. “You’d better get back to the old Rose now.”
“What shall we do with the castaway?” Iron-beard hesitated, one hand rested on the hilt of his knife. His eyes were no longer so friendly.
“Leave him to me,” Johanna said.
“He’s naked under your coat,” his bearded escort reminded her.
“And I am naked under my clothes too,” Johanna smiled and shook her head. “Thank you, Iain. I know this man. I am in no danger from him.” She waited until the last man left. “That was Iain Grant, he is a harpooner on the whaling ships, and a good man. But you, Sergeant Mendick, you seem to have got yourself into a pretty pickle.”
Mendick rose from the chair, swore softly as Johanna’s cloak flapped open and did not fail to notice the humour in Johanna’s eyes. “So have you, Mrs Gordon; you have a naked man in your house and if I am not mistaken, those are smuggled goods sitting on your table.”
“Indeed they are, Sergeant.” A dimple appeared on Johanna’s left cheek as she smiled. “Do you intend to arrest me for a little fun, Sergeant?” Her eyes laughed at him. “Don’t tell me you have never done anything just for the excitement of the thing?”
Mendick frowned, “Normally when I challenge somebody about their activities, they respond with evasion or defiance. Not by questioning me.”
“A question you did not answer, Sergeant, so I will ask again. Have you ever done anything that was not right?” She swiv
elled one of the kitchen chairs and drew it beside him, so close he could feel the heat from her body. “I am waiting, Sergeant.”
“I think I should be asking the questions . . .” Mendick began, but Johanna was having none of it.
“I don’t think you should, Sergeant. I really don’t.” As she stood up her hip brushed against his shoulder. It was an accidental, fleeting touch but it sent a thrill through him and he gasped so audibly he knew she should have heard.
Johanna stood over him with her mouth slightly twisted and her dimple deep beside her mouth. “I think you just follow the path of duty and never spare time for fun or for yourself,” she said.
Mendick shook his head. “We are discussing your illegal activities, Mrs Gordon, and what I should do about them, not my pursuits.”
As Johanna shook her head a few tendrils of auburn hair snaked across her left eye, an imperfection that made her appearance all the more entrancing. “Not so, Sergeant Mendick. It is more important to wonder what I am going to do with you?” Her smile broadened. “How can I explain to my husband that I have a naked man in my house?”
“If you send a message to the police office that I am here, they will send a constable with some clothes.” Mendick tried to rise but swayed and sat down heavily.
Johanna’s smile combined sweetness with iron in a manner Mendick had not seen since the death of his wife. “You wish me to inform the police? That is undoubtedly the most effective way of informing all of Dundee, including Mr Gordon, that I have a naked man here.” The flash of anger in her green eyes altered quickly to concern as Mendick slid down the chair. “Well, it seems the solution to that little problem will have to be postponed, Sergeant. You need rest.” She leaned closer and touched the purple bruises on his jaw and the top of his head. “And some patching up, I see.”
The slavering jaws of the dog were gaping around his throat, the fangs polished ivory, sharp as a curved row of razors. Then they changed, flattened; evolved into the dark hardness of that chute and then again eased into the liquid surface of the Tay, soft surging around his head as he sunk slowly down, down to the depths. His feet struck something solid and he swore. Death was so easy when Emma was waiting for him, her eyes wide in promise and her arms wide in welcome, the jolt meant he had to continue the struggle. He rolled with the sea roaring in his ears and the white hot agony of expanding lungs in his chest. Onward, rolling, pushing, he thrust towards the agony of life, away from the delights of peaceful death: the light was there, glaring in its brightness, harsh in its offering, and he surfaced in an explosion of pain.
Mendick woke to the sound of seagulls and the scent of beeswax, paint and perfume. He sat up with a jerk, unable to recognise his surroundings.
“Relax, Sergeant.” Johanna sat at the bottom of the bed; her perfume wafted towards him. Light and floral, it was pleasant rather than heady, relaxing rather than stimulating. “Or perhaps it is I who should be afraid? I have a bold man in my bed.”
Mendick breathed in deeply, enjoying the scent. “You are safe with me.” He thought he saw a flicker of disappointment in Johanna’s eyes, but knew he must be mistaken. “But am I safe from your husband?” Mendick considered his position − naked, unarmed and lying in the bed of a woman who might be China Jim’s wife. Even more dangerous, no-one knew his whereabouts or even whether he were alive or dead.
Johanna shrugged. “If I am safe, Sergeant, then so are you. Gordon never calls here unless he wants me for something, and that is a rare event.” When she looked away Mendick saw the hurt in her eyes.
“That is undeniably his loss,” he said softly.
“Did you sleep well, Sergeant?” The briskness was back as she rose from the bed and walked to the window. He realised he was watching the swing of her hips and looked away quickly. Johanna was another man’s woman and the wife of a possible suspect. He could not, should not look, but her skirt was neat around her hips and reached to just below her ankles. It matched the loose grey mantle that thumbed its nose at a fashion which demanded a tight waist and balloon sleeves. Johanna then, was a woman who wore what she liked in defiance of what was expected.
Her sudden turn took him by surprise and her eyes were bright and clear as they met his. “You were unconscious for long enough,” Johanna said, “so you must have slept well. Now,” she clapped her hands together as if making a decision, “you must be hungry. I know I am.” She lowered her head so her hair flopped forward. “Do you swim, Sergeant?”
“Do I what?” Once again this woman had caught Mendick by surprise.
“Swim, Sergeant. Can you swim?” She smiled at him, “You do understand the word?”
“Why, yes, but I do not understand why . . .”
Johanna patted his arm. “Good. Then you shall join us in our morning swim.” She stepped towards the door. “John and I always take to the water in the morning. Eat first though, you need to build up your strength.”
He knew he should report to the police office. He knew he should be hard on the trail of China Jim now he had new information and new knowledge, but as soon as Johanna gave him that slightly lopsided smile, and spoke with that laughing voice, his resolve melted clean away. Duty disappeared and something else took its place. He did not know or perhaps he did not want to admit what it was. He only knew he had not felt this way since Emma died.
“I have no swimming clothes,” Mendick temporised.
Johanna smiled. “I can provide them.” She looked down for a moment and smiled again, “unless you are too good to go swimming with me of course.”
Mendick thought of all the questions he should be asking. About Gordon and his movements, about his business, about the night of Milne’s murder and Torrie’s murder. Instead he bit into a hunk of fresh bread and cheese, sipped tea from a chipped, china cup, enjoyed the childish chatter of young John and worried vaguely about swimming clothes and what he might wear when he eventually rose from this bed. Somehow, when he was in Johanna’s company he did not care. She would work something out, he was sure.
Johanna took hold of John’s hand and slipped through the door in a shiver of skirts. She reappeared ten minutes later, still holding her son but dressed in an outfit so shocking that Mendick spent a long moment simply staring before he recollected himself and paid a mumbling compliment. Her dress was of thin linen, with a bodice top and baggy trousers that reached only to mid calf, leaving the lower leg, ankles and feet quite exposed.
“You like it?” Johanna gave an unselfconscious twirl. “I designed it myself. It is far more comfortable than these heavy serge things that weigh you down and drag you to the depths.” She tossed a small bundle onto the bed. “This is yours, I will leave you to get changed,” the light in her eyes was pure mischief, “unless you want me to help?”
“I think I can manage.” Mendick waited until Johanna left the room before he rose and quickly pulled on his own linen costume. It was light and simple but left him feeling very exposed. Designed to the same pattern as Johanna’s, it was tight around his chest and baggy at his waist and hips. He felt supremely self-conscious when he padded out of the bedroom but within seconds Johanna put him entirely at ease.
“It’s all right,” Johanna had waited for him just outside the room. “There are no servants here, just you, me and John.” She slid her gaze over him. “If you do not mind me saying so, Sergeant, you cut a fine figure!”
“And you are utterly enchanting,” Mendick said, and looked away. The words had escaped before he had the chance to stop them. However it seemed that Johanna had not heard for she merely smiled and gestured for him to follow down a short flight of stairs into a room whose walls seemed to be entirely glass.
“My studio,” she said.
Paintings filled the room. There were seascapes and landscapes, paintings of ships and of breaking seas, but mostly there were portraits. Mendick stopped to admire Johanna’s skill, looking at a group of men who posed on the deck of a ship. There were six of them, from a handsome youth with an
embarrassed smile to a familiar iron-bearded man with knowing eyes. The bearded man also featured in another portrait as he sat on the deck of a ship, splicing a line onto a harpoon.
“That is one of my favourites,” Johanna said quietly. “That’s Iain Grant. You met him yesterday morning.”
Mendick nodded. He knelt down to study the canvas. “You have caught something of his character there. I can see more than just the face. There is a light in the eyes and an expression of something.” He struggled for the word, “Durability I think, yes, durability.”
“Do you think so?” Johanna touched his shoulder, a light touch although her fingers left an impression like fire on his skin beneath the thin linen. “Thank you, James. Nobody has ever said anything like that before.” There was a catch in her voice that intrigued him and for a second he sensed a vulnerability that he craved to ease, and a loneliness he would not have understood if he had not already learned of her loveless marriage.
“It’s beautiful,” Mendick said. He meant, “You are beautiful,” but he could not say that. Not to another man’s wife.
“I try to catch the character of all my subjects,” Johanna said, “people, ships, places. When I paint, the light is important. Some ships have their own atmosphere, and people . . . I love portraits, and capturing the hidden sides of people.” She stepped back and looked away, “It is good to be appreciated, Sergeant Mendick. I only wish that Mr Gordon . . . shared my interest.”
“You have a rare talent,” Mendick said. He was unsure if he meant her painting skills or something else. He waited for a response but Johanna seemed unable to accept a compliment.
“Come, Sergeant, before the morning’s sun has gone.” She took John’s hand and hurried out of the door.
Sunlight sparked from a myriad waves, glittering like a layer of diamonds scattered on a carpet of undulating blue. Mendick watched as Johanna waded deep, ducked under and began to swim with strokes more powerful than he had ever seen from a woman. John followed, as fearless as the divers Mendick had once seen off Ceylon, as he gambolled in a display of splashing water.
A Burden Shared: The Dundee Murders Page 16
